The Recluse

If you're looking for just sex, you've come to the wrong place. if you're looking for a story and sex, you've come to the right place.

*

In my town there is a house on a hill that lay derelict for years. It actually isn't in the town, so much as just on the town border, but it had the melodramatic air of an early horror film as it loomed over us. You could almost smell the dust and rot when you looked at it, and it even seemed to have bleached itself to black and white over the years. Then one day, with no warning at all, a rumble was heard throughout the village. It was a convoy of trucks trundling up the gravel road to the hill estate. Work began. And we watched the slow progress. Scaffolding was put up on every side of the house, and then men clambered all over it. They scurried over the sloping gables, replacing roof tiles and blasting off the ancient moss. A team of painters slapped the mouldings with a vibrant new coat of paint.

Much work must have gone on inside too, though we never saw what it was. All we saw was a parade of shiny things entering and a train of junk leaving it; rotting wood, broken chairs, that sort of thing. The place was humming with electricians and plumbers and plasterers and all sorts. Landscapers eventually arrived, the savagely overgrown yard was completely dug up, and a lavish, verdant garden grew quickly in its place, overhanging the fences and giving it a far more inviting atmosphere. Eventually came what the town had been expecting for months, the removalists, who carted furnishing after furnishing after box after box into the house, to create some environment that not a one of us in the town had seen.

They were accompanied by two flamboyant men, identified easily as interior decorators, who flounced inside one day and out the next. Rumours abounded about famous people moving in, although I never bought it. Then there was suggestion that it was becoming a museum, which I also flatly rejected, as not even an idiot would put a museum in our dinky village, let alone at the edge of it. Besides, I thought I saw a flatscreen television go in. No, the rumour I believed to be true was that it was a recluse of some kind, who had moved from a larger, more brazen city to our quiet little hamlet. I knew how unlikely and romantic the notion was, but I couldn't bring myself to believe anything else.

To my surprise, my notion was confirmed by Alvin, of course. Alvin was one of the only local taxi drivers, a big-gutted bloke with a hearty bellow of a laugh that was completely overpowering, but a good man nonetheless. He knew all the comings and goings of our town and three others nearby.

"You're not going to believe it," he said jovially as he leaned on the counter in my cafe, tearing a Danish, "But a real person's finally moving in to that big house, you know?"

"Really?" I replied, "Did you drive them?"

"No," Alvin replied, "Davy drove them this morning, said it was a sullen sod, Didn't say very much at all. All dour and flat, like."

"I suppose I was right then," I said confidently, "It is a recluse we'll be having."

"I suppose so," Alvin said with a guffaw.

"Alvin," creaked Mrs Simm, who had been sitting in the window all decade for all I knew, "Do you think I might trouble you for a lift home?"

"Of course Mrs Simm," Alvin said gently and unpatronising, in a way that made me love him, "Let me help you to the car. I'll be seeing you," he said, nodding to me. I nodded back and then called after him, "Oy, Alvin, did Davy get a name?"

"Err, I think he said it was Haverbrack." He yelled back as he led Mrs Simm to his taxi.

I leaned on the counter and rested my head on my hand as I fantasised about a Beethoven-esque character rumbling out a sonata on the big grand piano I had earlier seen put in. The wind chimes by the open window jingled mockingly in the breeze.

The town buzzed for the next week with the arrival of this mysterious new inhabitant, Haverbrack. Only Davy had actually seen him, and Davy hadn't been in town, so we all tittered childishly with speculation. When would he come down to town? What would he look like? Would he be a nice bloke? Would he be a high and mighty prick? Was he good for us or was he bad for us? It was all terribly amusing, to hear every single person in town, from the priest to the plumber, having out their opinion on the matter. Of course, nothing came of it. But, with some supreme sense of timing, just as intrigue was turning to annoyance, the mysterious Haverbrack descended from the house on the hill.

I was probably the first to see the tall figure striding down toward the village, as my shop has a corridor from front to back with a window looking right up the hill. I always kept that door open to admire the view. And today I couldn't suppress or deny the little peak of excitement that quivered in me at this view. I supposed the image must have tapped into some Brontean fantasy I had invented; this dark stranger now traversing the moor. But my excitement was soon joined by a chorus of others who happened to be in my cafe, all staring up the corridor with wide eyes. But all our eyes grew wider, because as the figure grew closer, we realised that Haverbrack was not a man, as we had assumed. Haverbrack was a woman.

She stepped onto the cobblestone lane that wound round my shop and out of sight, and our eyes all flew to the front window that looked onto the main street. In moments she appeared there, her coat fluttering wildly with her hair. Despite her very short honey-coloured crop, intense blue eyes and richly tanned skin, she had an air of darkness about her. Perhaps it was the way she held her face in a scowl. She had a striking face, and I was shocked when I realised she reminded me of Beethoven. She didn't actually look like Beethoven at all, but she had the same menacing stare. She maintained her purposeful stride and stepped through my door. But when she saw every face was turned to her, her scowl seemed to deepen, not with anger, but with frustration, I thought. Or perhaps fear. I realised it must have been fear, for when she next made a move, her shoulders were hunched, she had made herself seem half the size, and when she arrived at the counter she did not bring her eyes to mine.

"I wonder," she murmured with a pristine accent, "If I make an order, could you bring it up to the house tonight?"

"Depends what you order," I said, with some dissatisfaction at her failing to introduce herself. She tucked a trembling hand into a pocket and withdrew a slightly wrinkled piece of paper. She was apparently very daunted by the prospect of my refusal. To make her food.

"Is this possible?" She asked, handing it to me, still not meeting my searching eyes. I looked it over. All pretty ordinary stuff, most of it I made on a regular basis, and nothing that would require much extra trouble, just that a lot of things said "without this," or "without that".

"Seems alright," I replied with a nod. "What time?"

"Six o'clock, if possible." She mumbled, and I only just caught it.

"Alright then, six o'clock it is."

"Thankyou," she said, and she looked into my eyes. I nearly fell over as a flash of something streamed through me. I barely knew what had happened. But by the time I'd recovered my composure, she was gone. And now everyone was looking at me.

My panel van pulled into the gravel courtyard a minute before six, just when the last remnants of sunlight were fading. I withdrew a large crate with the order inside, and readily proceeded up the stairs and rang the doorbell. It was an electrical system, but it was clearly rigged to the original, ancient bell that tolled cheerfully. The house wasn't nearly as foreboding as it once had seemed.

I heard Haverbrack (though I was now uncertain that this was her name) barrelling down the corridor and saw a shadow of her in the frosted glass window of the door. It trembled, and then opened, and there she stood, flushed with activity, and yet still scowling. A huge black wolfhound scuttled up behind her and butted its head through the space between Haverbrack and the door. I was never one to be afraid of a dog, but as this beast's head bobbed comfortably at Haverbrack's hip, I wondered how tall it was on its hind legs.

"Come in," she said, already turned from me.

As I followed Morse and the enormous hound, I was torn between indignation at being refused an introduction a second time, and wonder at seeing this beautiful house. It had certainly been restored to its former Georgian glory. Despite its prior gloom, the whole house was light and rich. It had been revived with great love, and it sang with some kind of luxuriant homeliness. Room after room of it. I even glimpsed the grand piano through a half-open door.

She led me to the kitchen which was expectably downstairs, and in the original rustic style of stucco walls and wooden bench tops and saucepans hanging from the ceiling. It was glorious.

"Very grateful." She said inelegantly as I put the crate down, "I mean, thankyou for coming... thankyou for going out of your way."

"It's not a problem." I said. The massive dog loped toward me and poked his nose at my hand, snuffling at it. Then, rather strangely, it sat by my side and stared at Haverbrack. And after an expectant moment, I extended a hand, and said, "I'm Lenore."

She seemed to stare blankly at my hand for a moment, then at me, and I felt that rush again. And then she rushed to take my hand.

"I'm Morse, I'm so sorry, I didn't introduce myself, did I?" she said wincing, "I'm Morse. Morse Haverbrack. I'm sorry."

I smiled at her fumbling. "That's alright. No harm done. And... the dog?"

"That is Lev."

"Hello, Lev," I said sweetly, lightly patting his head. Lev moved a little closer to me.

"I'm afraid I'm... n-not very good with people," Haverbrack stammered, staring at the Lev.

"I'd noticed," I replied dryly. She winced again.

"Everyone thinks I'm a horror, don't they?"

"They don't think anything, really."

"I don't mean to be rude, only I'm just so bad at it. People frighten me. When they look at me I feel as if I'm being eaten."

I was surprised to see such a creature so terrified of the world.

"I don't think you've anything to worry about." I said, trying to be reassuring. She shrugged sadly.

"Anyway," she said as her hand went to her pocket, "How much shall I pay you... I mean how much do I owe you?"

"First time, on the house," I replied, now feeling a little sorry for her. Although now when I think of it, I don't know if I should have.

"Really? Oh. Thankyou. Actually, I was hoping we could make this a regular order. Is that possible?"

"Of course. Might get expensive though."

She seemed not to notice this comment at all.

"I'm not very good at cooking you see, but I like good food. But I can't live in a big city any longer. So I moved here, but now I don't know what to do about food."

It seemed like money wasn't a major concern, so I said, "Well, as it happens, I'm very well qualified, so if you want me to make something, it's not a problem. Or... I could teach you."

"Really? You think you could teach me?"

"I'd be happy to." I smiled, looking around at the lovely kitchen.

"I should warn you I am a bad student."

"Well, I should warn you I'm a good teacher."

"Thankyou," she said awkwardly again, with a strange, rusty smile. An awkward silence pooled around us.

The questions flew hard and fast at the café the next morning. I don't think I served anyone who didn't ask me about Haverbrack. Obviously the "news" of the order had made the rounds, and everyone wanted to know everything about everything. But I had nothing distinct to tell them, no great insight into her character, no revelation of her past. I couldn't even tell them what she did for a living. How she'd made the money to buy and fix that house. I could only say that she was shy and civil, if a little strange.

It was certainly a disappointing situation for everyone, and as the weeks passed, it grew ever more disappointing. Morse left the house once a week with Lev to visit the supermarket, and occasionally to attend to some sundry business. But she never spoke to anyone. She barely looked up from the pavement. She could barely stutter out a passable greeting to a stranger on the street.

On the other hand, she was warming to me. Often on her little ventures into public she would stop at my café and I would accompany her. This seemed to put her at ease a little, and it also gave her the opportunity to be introduced to the townsfolk by proxy. I would point subtly to people and explain who they were and what they did and their funny small-town quirks.

We had also arranged cooking lessons twice a week, and we had reached the point where she no longer needed to frown or huddle in my presence. She even occasionally made a joke, and they were actually funny, which was a blessing. Even so, she never spoke about herself, and she never asked about me. It wasn't, I don't think, that she had no interest. Rather I think it didn't occur to her that she could do it. And I'm sure had I asked she would have answered, but I didn't think she wanted me to.

She wasn't a bad student, as she had said, only she had a wandering mind, and so I would occasionally have to call her name to get her back. She was otherwise very quick, and willing to learn. Nevertheless, while Morse learned to cook and I learned to teach her, no one in the village had learned anything. It was a pity she was so shy, for I was certain people would like her, and that she would like them. I thought that perhaps over time, she might get to know the town better. I, however, only seemed to be getting more insistently questioned, despite my complete lack of anything interesting to reveal.

Perhaps the only thing worth revealing was how fond I was growing of Morse, though I didn't dare mention that to anyone. I looked forward to teaching her more than I should have, to the point that I would spend the whole day thinking about it. It had become a ritual now, after a couple of months. We'd cook dinner, eat it, and for some weeks Morse had been teaching me piano, although I was a terrible student. We'd increased lesson nights from two to four, so I ate dinner with Morse more than I ate it alone. Which was lovely, perhaps more lovely than it ought to have been. I wanted to be in that house all the time. I wanted to cook in that kitchen, listen to that piano, be near that woman. And it scared me. A lot. Mainly because Morse never showed any similar feelings.

One Saturday evening, when Morse and I were drying the dishes, Morse nudged me. I must have looked sullen and miserable, because she said, "Is something wrong?"

Yes. "No, I'm fine."

"Are you sure? You look unhappy."

I am miserable. "I'm fine."

"You have to tell me the truth, Lenore, because I am not able to tell if you are lying. Please say something if there's something you want to say."

I want you. "I'm just tired."

"You can stay here tonight... if you'd like. You can sleep in the guest room."

Can I sleep with you? "Thanks, but I'd better go home."

"You look... sad, Lenore, I think there is something wrong. Please tell me. Maybe I can do something."

"No, there's nothing. It's nothing."

We finished the dishes and put them away. Lev trotted through the kitchen and into the darkness of the corridor beyond. And as I folded my tea towel and hung it on the rack, Morse approached. I turned to her and she came closer and closer, until she was too close for friends.

Now it was my turn to be meek and shaky. When her lips touched mine I felt as if I was falling apart. All I could do was hold on to her for dear life. She pressed me gently backwards against the bench as her hand found its way to my shoulder and her tongue found its way to mine. All I could do was pray she didn't stop pressing me against the bench, or I would have fallen down. She kissed me unbelievably gently, almost to the point where I couldn't tell when her lips left mine, but it drove me wild, I grabbed frantically at her, and I prayed that she would take me to a bed soon. But then it stopped. I opened my eyes and saw her stumbling away from me.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, retreating into horrified meekness, "I'm so sorry."

I shook my head and went to her, and even then she shrunk from me into the opposite bench.

"Why are you sorry?" I asked half-chidingly, "You've got nothing to be sorry for."

"I kissed you."

"But I kissed you back."

"I shouldn't have done that."

"Why not?"

"I don't want to... inflict myself on you."

"You make yourself sound like a knife-wound."

"I am a knife wound," she said sullenly, "I'm awful."

"How?"

"Look at how I live. I can barely speak to people. I'm afraid to leave my own house."

"You speak to me. You leave with me."

"You don't count."

"Why not?"

"You're different."

"How?"

"I... no, I can't. I can't do this."

"I love you." I said. She winced.

"No but you don't understand. I'm in love with you. I'm in love with you.

"I am too."

"Are you?"

"Yes."

"Please don't make fun of me." She said wearily. "I couldn't bear it."

"I'm not... I'm not." I said, now putting my hands to her face. "Do you know why I was looking sad tonight? It was because I thought you didn't feel the same. I didn't know what to do. I thought I'd never be able to tell you."

"Really?"

"I've felt this way for a long time. I just didn't realise what it was."

She looked up at me, and said nothing, despite pleading eyes.

"What?" I prompted.

"I want to kiss you. Will you let me kiss you again?"

I took her hands and put them on my hips.

"Do anything," I murmured, putting my head to hers. "Anything."

Her lips fell on mine again and I had to lean into her otherwise I would have been on the ground again. Her arms snaked round me and I had the distinct impression that I was falling. I broke away from her with a sigh.

"You have got to take me to a bed." I whispered, and she grabbed me, and carried me out of the kitchen.

She walked slowly and steadily up a set of stairs and through some dim corridors to an open door. The bedroom was dark, but Morse effortlessly found her way to the edge of the bed and lay me down. My ears rang with the embarrassing accuracy with which this moment mimicked my fantasy. This feeling faded though, as my head hit the pillow and Morse's lips found mine again. I writhed against her now, begging for her body against mine. I whimpered as she drew away, but shivered when I felt her hands untying my cardigan. She was surprisingly deft with it, and it seemed to fall away even more easily than the simple singlet that lay beneath it. She ran her fingertips over my stomach, and it quivered desperately, halting my breathing for a moment. The fingertips made their way across my back to my bra, and that fell away equally simply, exposing my breasts to the slight chill of the household air. I had a momentary warning of hot air before soft lips and fingers were on my nipples, and I actually cried out. She was so delicate, it was almost unbearable. I felt those fingertips now crawling toward my jeans, and a wave of anticipation crashed through me. They were off in a second, as were my panties, and her mouth had now moved to tease my inner thigh. My chest heaved with the effort of breathing through this experience, and I clutched at the bedclothes.

With almost no warning, her lips curled around my clit and her fingers slipped inside my furiously wet pussy. I moaned and unceremoniously spread my legs wider. It took only moments of gentle sucking and fingers thrusting for me to tumble into a tremendous orgasm.

When I came down, it was to the feel of Morse's lips on my neck, sliding up towards the spot behind my ear, her arm round my waist. I shivered gleefully and turned to face her, and she put a hand on either side of me and said, "I'm a writer. I write. Books. And music."